


Inappropriate

by i_claudia



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Facial Hair, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, in a spectacularly self-defeating display of Arthur-logic, has long established the intensely stupid rule that he doesn’t fuck around while he’s working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/80448.html). (16 November 2011)

“You grew a beard,” Eames says. The shock is starting to fade somewhat; he’s beginning to feel more like himself and less like an ant that’s lost the trail back to the anthill.

“It’s a goatee,” Arthur says irritably. “And I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Oh, it is,” Eames assures him. “It’s _very_ relevant.”

~:~

Arthur, in a spectacularly self-defeating display of Arthur-logic, has long established the intensely stupid rule that he doesn’t fuck around while he’s working. He and Eames might go at it like rabbits outside of a job, but as soon as Arthur walks into whatever hell-hole warehouse is serving as a headquarters, Eames finds himself shut out cold. Arthur says it’s because they can’t afford to be distracted. Eames says it’s because Arthur was never held as a child, which is why he’s grown into a masochistic freak with a taste for blue balls and torture.

“I was held,” Arthur says, inspecting the latest model of the second layer: some horrible garden full of hedges, the likes of which Eames had thought he’d escaped when he left England’s green and pleasant shores behind the first time.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, pet,” says Eames. They’re alone in the warehouse, the rest of the team has left for the night, and Eames wants to _touch_. Well, he amends, he wants to do more than touch: he wants to sink into Arthur and fuck him until Arthur can barely breathe, let alone remember his own name or his stupid, stupid rules about when and where it’s appropriate for Eames to take him over the nearest available surface. As far as Eames is concerned, it’s _always_ appropriate.

For now, he contents himself with looking, which also serves the admirable purpose of making Arthur flustered and snappish, so Eames counts it as half a win. 

The goatee is exactingly trimmed—of course it is, Eames thinks—and a bit longer at the bottom of Arthur’s chin, shorter as it loops around his mouth. It’s the same colour as Arthur’s eyebrows, and it looks like it would scratch delightfully. Trust even Arthur’s facial hair to pretend it’s bitchy and untouchable. Eames would almost find it endearing if he wasn’t so frustrated; he’s tried to circumvent the Arthur Rule before, and he knows better than to try it again if he wants to have sex with Arthur in the next fifty years. 

Eames likes sex with Arthur. He doesn’t want to have to wait, but two weeks is better than fifty years, so he’ll take it as the lesser of two evils, even if Arthur is driving him mad. Arthur’s there every time Eames turns around, pressing his fingers against his mouth as he studies his notes or leaning his hip against a table so the fabric stretches tight across the swell of his arse or rolling his sleeves carefully up to his elbows to expose the strong lines of his forearms and the delicate-looking bones of his wrists.

Eames catches on when he sees Arthur deep in discussion with Ariadne, Arthur stroking the goatee while Ariadne talks. Eames wouldn’t have thought much of it, just allowed himself a private glower because _he_ is supposed to be the one touching Arthur’s goatee, memorising how it feels beneath his fingertips, but Arthur catches his eyes and holds the gaze over Ariadne’s shoulder, just the briefest of looks before he turns back to what Ariadne is saying, and Eames _knows_. He should have figured it out earlier—Arthur’s always been a bit of a bastard; Eames has known this since before they met—but maybe it’s a good thing he hadn’t, because this, it only makes the job worse. The waiting is slowly killing Eames and Arthur knows it and Eames knows Arthur knows it, is enjoying it, and Eames wants to _lay hands on him_. He wants to lock Arthur up for a month, tie him down and fuck him until Arthur breaks in his arms, keep going until Arthur is filthy with come and sobbing and begging for it, for Eames, and lets Eames call all the shots until neither of them can see straight.

Maybe he’d get Arthur all sloppy and relaxed with sex, Eames thinks while he’s supposed to be paying attention to the chemist filling them in on the specifics of the compound they’ll be using. Arthur has a small black notebook in hand, the barest crease of a frown in his forehead, and he’s got his mouth around the cap of his pen—not chewing, just holding the pen there, and Eames shouldn’t be faulted for not paying attention to anything but the little indent it makes on the pillow of Arthur’s lip. He’d get Arthur sated and pliant, and he’d shave the goatee right off; obscuring the lines of Arthur’s jaw should be a crime, and the beard should pay the consequences. 

Besides, Eames gets the sense that Arthur’s only keeping it to mess with him, and two can play that game.

“—believe Eames can fill us in on this bit; Eames?”

Eames does not start at the suddenness of hearing his name; he’s far too practiced for anything so obvious. “Of course,” he says, smoothly, ignoring the smirk Arthur’s angling into his notebook. One more week, he thinks; one more week, and the goatee will be just another casualty in the games they play.

~:~

The bar is perfect: smoky and low-ceilinged and filled with noise, the bass pounding in Eames’s ears and chest and feet, and Arthur’s thigh is barely brushing his, just close enough that Eames can feel the heat from it, and Eames is about to go out of his mind entirely if he doesn’t get Arthur alone soon. He’d have dragged Arthur off ages ago, but Robinson is talking to Arthur because Christ almighty, the man couldn’t take a hint if it fell on him tied to an anvil. Eames might think that Arthur’s playing still, keeping himself aloof for a few hours longer on purpose, but Arthur keeps shifting next to him, restless until Eames reaches out under the table and lays a heavy hand on Arthur’s knee, and Arthur freezes; just for a moment, just long enough to send little thrills shivering through Eames’s body.

Eames hides a smile in his lager, and passes the time devising an elaborate list of ways to dispose of Robinson’s body with as little fuss as possible.

When Robinson excuses himself—off to find a place to piss or pull, Eames doesn’t care which—Eames hauls Arthur into his lap, picking him up and dragging him bodily over. Arthur doesn’t bother fighting, just opens his mouth for Eames’s bruising kiss, one hand curling back around Eames’s neck to tuck his fingers just under the collar of Eames’s shirt. Eames is already hardening, his hands tight on Arthur’s ribs and thighs, keeping Arthur pulled close, and Arthur must feel it, because he wiggles down, as much as he’s able to with his legs still hanging together off one side of Eames’s lap.

“He’ll be back,” Arthur says, tilting his head until he’s lipping down Eames’s neck. The angle must be awkward, but it doesn’t seem to make him any less enthusiastic.

“Who cares?” Eames doesn’t care who sees them. They’re tucked away in a back corner, hidden by shadows and the bench they’re sitting on from the rest of the bar, but Eames wouldn’t care if it were broad daylight on Park Avenue. He wants the world to know that Arthur is _his_. 

Arthur gives him a bright, razor smile, feral, and Eames lets his chest rumble with a groan that mixes with the music as it changes to something heavier, faster, thumping as if they were in a club, not some seedy bar far enough off the beaten track to have a celebratory drink without risking being seen by anyone who might compromise them. Arthur changes with it, pushing his arse down until it rubs just right on Eames’s cock. Eames lets him, rolling his hips a bit to make it better, bending in to mouth at Arthur’s jaw.

“First thing I’m doing,” he growls close to Arthur’s ear. “I’m shaving this damn thing off.”

“Won’t let you,” Arthur says with a little smirk. Eames nips him for that, vicious, and runs his teeth down to bite again at Arthur’s chin, gentler but with enough force to make a point. The goatee scratches when he rubs his tongue against it, prickles at his lips until they’re tender, and Eames pushes his hips up again.

“You will,” he says at last, when Arthur’s head is lolling back against Eames’s shoulder and he can see that Arthur is hard in his trousers, wet spot growing against the distended fabric. Eames is a giving soul, so even though Arthur’s been driving him mad for weeks, he reaches down.

“Won’t,” Arthur gasps, and jerks when Eames touches him, rubbing without bothering with the zip. Arthur’s lap is hidden under the table, barely, but if anyone walks by it’ll be immediately obvious what they’re doing: Eames palming Arthur’s crotch, Arthur grinding down on Eames’s lap, his head thrown back to expose the creamy line of his neck, now spotted red from Eames’s attentions. 

Eames doesn’t bother arguing, just presses his fingers down harder until Arthur gasps and squirms. “I’ll take you home,” he says, low, just loud enough that Arthur can hear him through the music and arousal. “Maybe I’ll fuck you first, leave you limp with bliss and dripping with my come while I get my razor, and I’ll shave the damn thing off your face while you don’t have the strength to do a thing about it. And then, before you have a chance to protest, I’ll fuck you again, slide right in and fill you up again until you forget all about it, put my hands and mouth all over you, and you’ll forget. You’ll forget you ever covered your face with a fucking beard, forget you ever made me wait to have you, forget everything except me in you, leaking out of you; forget you’d ever left my bed.”

“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur bites out. He’s close now, Eames can tell; he has one hand stretched back and buried in Eames’s hair while the other grips the edge of the table, white-knuckled. He shoves his hips back again, and again, rubbing between Eames’s cock and his hand, and Eames presses his mouth into Arthur’s neck, teeth brushing skin in something that isn’t a kiss, not quite a bite.

“You’ll never want to leave,” Eames tells him. “You’ll want to stay there forever, in my bed; I’ll hide your clothes and you won’t mind, because I treat you right, give you what you deserve, hold you down and pump you full until you can’t hold any more, and then I’ll come on your skin, cover you and rub it in until I’m all you can feel, all you can smell, until you can’t ever scrub yourself clean of me.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” says Arthur, stiffening, and Eames can feel him coming under his hand, the trousers turning wet and hot and unsalvageable, and Arthur will complain about that later but it’s worth it, worth all of it to see Arthur come undone at Eames’s will. Eames holds Arthur’s hips and ruts forward, the rub of cloth against his cock too rough, not quite enough—he wants to be in Arthur, needs to slide his dick into Arthur’s sweet arse, fuck him too hard while he pushes the imprints of his fingers into the sweat on Arthur’s skin—

Eames comes, shuddering.

It’s sticky and uncomfortable, after, and he has an embarrassing stain on his trousers to match Arthur’s, but he can’t bring himself to care. Arthur barely has a hair out of place but his eyes are huge and still dark, heavy with desire, and he’s grabbing his jacket to hold in front of his crotch.

“Take me home,” he tells Eames, curling their fingers together for an instant before pulling away and standing, and Eames chases his hand, grabs it and tucks it firmly into his own, latching on tightly when Arthur tries half-heartedly to tug it free. 

“Gladly,” he says with a grin, and lets Arthur drag him out of the bar.


End file.
